In answer to Michael’s frantic query, Obscuro simply spread his hands and nodded at the impaled man, who was still standing next to his table. There was an unusual lack of blood; only a slow trickle running down the bridge of his nose. The bar had gone cleanly through the skull, sticking a full eight inches out the back of the man’s head, and almost a foot in the front. Other than his concern for the fuss being made, he seemed utterly unshaken about what had just occurred. In the rear near the kitchen, Rutland and Burlington had begun cleaning up with large, flat, brooms.
Galen loosed his grip on the slim young man’s arms—given the evening’s events, he would not be surprised if this were more illusion. Michael stood hunched over a chair, breathing hard, his eyes wild.
Obscuro reached into the hat and pulled out a handkerchief, which he handed to the stout man. “Here,” he said mildly, “sorry if there’s a mess. If you’ll go to the back, I’m sure Mr. Burlington will have something to put on that.”
The man took the proffered kerchief and with a look of gratitude, turned and disappeared behind the bar.
“I must be more tired than I’d thought,” said Obscuro. “That bar was supposed to have gone all the way through. Perhaps if it was at a different angle….”
“Different angle?” said Michael. “Are you out of your mind?”
“You’re right,” said Obscuro resignedly. “It’s just a matter of inadequate force, plain and simple. Better luck next time, eh?”
Galen began gathering his coat, his face a stone mask. “Enough of this. I’m done with this madness.”
“But professor,” said the illusionist, “I haven’t given you the answer to your dilemma, yet.”
“My dilemma?” Exclaimed Galen, astonished. “You and your dilemma and your matter of historical and academic importance and your swill soda and snack cakes and this whole place can just go straight to Hades,” said Galen.
“I think I’m with him,” said Michael. “Thanks for an interesting, ah … well, just thanks.”
“But gentlemen,” said Obscuro, “my hat is not yet empty.”
Galen had begun to stalk out and Michael had turned to head for the door when they heard the soft thump of the parcel the illusionist had pulled from his hat and dropped to the table.
“The hat,” Obscuro said theatrically, “is now empty, and the show is truly ended. All that remains is this mystery, which may contain within it the answers you seek to mysteries of your own.”
Michael turned back to the table and looked curiously at the longish object, which appeared to be a bundle of parchments wrapped in linen, and bound between thin boards. On Obscuro’s nodded permission, he undid the wrap and peered closely at the coffee-colored sheets.
Galen had already reached the door when he heard Michael’s hoarsely muttered oath. “Christ—is that what I think it is? This can’t possibly be real.”
Obscuro shrugged. “You’re holding it in your hands—the reality may not be in question. But the authenticity is something which requires a greater knowledge than my own to judge—and judging from your quick assessment, you, Professor Langbein, may be the very authority I need. But if this is truly what I suspect it is —” he said turning and extending his arm to encircle Galen, who had been overtaken by his curiosity —”then its successful application will also require the expertise of Professor Gunnar-Galen.”
“Application? Application of what?” Galen said irritably, scowling at the parchment. “What is this, Langbein?”
Hands trembling as he ran his fingers lightly over the grayish-brown runes inscribed on the fragile sheet, Michael turned to his companion, eyes wide, almost at the edge of either rapture or madness. “It’s a little unclear, and of a dialect I don’t know well, b-because no one’s ever read an entire document written in it.”
“What is it?”
“Icelandic—ancient Icelandic.” said Michael. “According to the little I can translate, this is the Prime Edda—a mythology of Icelandic, Norse, and Germanic peoples which …” He paused, frozen, almost unable to move, and simply stared, his mouth hanging open.
“I was wondering when you’d get to those,” said Obscuro.
“Sturluson?” asked Galen. “It’s not really my field, but the document’s probably a fake.”
Michael choked, then continued, his speech trancelike. “It’s real. It is the Prime Edda—it predates every other known writing of Sturluson’s, and this copy is the most complete collection of his work in existence.”
“How can you tell that?” asked Galen. “You said yourself it’s hard to translate, and you’ve only had it for a few moments.”
“Because,” Michael said, hands shaking as he grabbed Galen’s arm and pointed to a dark line of script on one of the pages, “it’s annotated, and the annotations are in 19th century German.”
“Annotated by whom?”
“Surely you of all scholars would recognize that hand, Galen,” said Obscuro with a touch of sarcasm. “Look closely.”
Lips pursed, Galen bent closer, then swore. He lifted one page, then another, then another, then began to page through the stack with a barely controlled frenzy.
“The other shoe drops,” said Obscuro, “and I’ll assume we have a confirmation.”
Galen and Michael, both clutching the pages, looked in tandem at the wryly grinning young illusionist, who spread his arms in the now-familiar gesture. “This, as far as I can tell, is the Prime Edda—a completely unknown work of Snorri Sturluson’s. What’s more, this manuscript apparently belonged at one time to Franz Liszt, who worked on the translation before giving it to a young companion of his whom he referred to as ‘Dearest Friend’. That companion began on these pages a retelling of the stories within, which he eventually completed from other, less-complete source material.”
“Wagner,” Galen breathed, “it’s Wagner.”
“Correct,” said the illusionist, “and if our other assumptions are correct—as I think they are—what you are holding is not only a priceless historical document, but also the first, the truest version of the greatest cycle of operas ever written.”
“Dear God,” said Michael. “But, Obscuro, how did…?”
The young man waved his hands and pointed to the surly club owners waiting at the bar. “We’ve closed the place down, gentlemen. I suggest we retire to someplace a bit less conspicuous and a great deal more comfortable. And,” he finished with a sardonic twinkle in his eyes, “this was Obscuro’s last show—I’ve retired him. From now on, call me Jude.”
***
CHAPTER FOUR
Thrice-Told Tales
Of possible retreats, Michael’s apartment was closest—it was also the most discreet place at which they might more fully examine the unusual document. Any of the open-air restaurants or coffee shops along the way would have been out of the question; the recognizability of two professors from the University, much less that of the recently-retired illusionist, would have been cause for numerous potential interruptions, not to mention the fact that all three of them would rather not open the parcel again in an unguarded location.
Michael desperately wanted to hold the Edda manuscript, but when Jude declined to pick it up and motioned for one of them to do so, Galen snatched it up with a zealot’s fervor, and was now clutching it to his chest as if it were a sick infant, or a Ming vase on the verge of shattering.
The short, brisk walk to the apartment was done in silence: Michael was formulating and organizing several thousand questions he had for the young man who had engineered their party’s assemblage, and he suspected Galen was doing the same. As to Jude, he seemed to be content to merely take in the sights as they strolled. The evening was not too chill, and it was not yet late enough for the sidewalks to be empty of people. Jude wore a small grin, knowing but not quite smug, and his eyes darted back and forth with a disguised but ravenous intelligence. Michael wondered what someone with such an apparent depth of aptitude was doing working as a stage performer, before suddenly
recalling that the slender young man was a mathematician, and the youngest University-level department head in more than four centuries. When you factored in the undeniable charisma, it’s no wonder, Michael thought, that his arrival in Vienna overshadowed an obscure historical discovery. He could, however, take some small pleasure in the knowledge that were it not for his earlier discovery and the subsequent sale to the Americans of the Jefferson Document, the Physics Library where Jude was tenured would not have been funded.
Michael looked over at Galen, clutching the parcel to his chest, and at Jude, who seemed to be looking at both everything and nothing all at once, and decided that no matter the final result, it had already been the most interesting evening he’d had all year. At best, an outcome he hardly dared to consider, he had had the means for saving the Department of Ancient Literature and Historical Studies dropped almost literally in his lap; and at worst, he had managed to restock his toothpaste supply. Not a bad summation for what, on the whole, had been a lousy day.
* * *
“Where did you get this book?”
Jude had settled into a deep, plaid-patterned couch near the double doors leading to Michael’s study, while Michael, ever the good host, removed himself to the pantry to retrieve coffee for the trio, and a bottle of absinthe, just in case the circumstances called for a stronger drink. Galen on the other hand, remained standing and had not even bothered to remove his coat. He held the linen-wrapped package at arm’s length and asked the question again, his voice tense and gravelly.
“Where did you get this book?”
Jude smiled and leaned his head back, taking Galen’s measure. “I thought that might be the first question you’d ask, though I rather expected Professor Langbein to be the one asking. If you will avail yourself of his hospitality, I will attempt to answer all of your questions as best I can.”
Galen stood a moment more, the obvious tension in him making his standing an effort of kinetic energy, as if sitting would stop the motions he could not decide to make. Finally, he relaxed, shoulders slumping, and pulled an armchair from the writing desk near the front door. He placed the parcel on the desk, seeming not to want to let it out of his grasp, but also a little apprehensive of opening it again.
Michael appeared at the door to the kitchen, a steaming pot and three sets of cups and saucers balanced precariously in his hands. “So, uh,” he said nervously, pouring a good measure of coffee for each of them, “Where did you get the book?”
Jude chuckled, and even Galen raised an eyebrow, biting back a grin.
“What?” said Michael.
“Never mind,” said Jude. “Let’s take another look at the book, and I’ll tell you what I can.”
Galen unwrapped the manuscript while Michael cleared a low table of debris and pulled it to the center of the room. Jude sat up in the couch, but made no motion to move closer. Galen scooted to the edge of his chair, and Michael turned his wingback from its spot facing the window to alongside the table where the stack of parchment lay.
In the more substantial light of the apartment, they could see more clearly the age and delicacy of the document. Whatever its ultimate provenance, it was an object worthy of detailed study, and something to be handled with the utmost care. Galen smoothed out the linen underneath, then ran a finger lightly across the edge of the top sheet. Michael made a polite gesture of at least sipping at his coffee before setting it aside and doing the same.
“To understand the origins of this volume, you must first understand where and how I acquired it,” Jude began, “and I must caution you that it may seem at times a tale too incredulous for belief.”
“After the performance tonight, I think I may be inclined to believe just about anything,” said Michael honestly.
“Indeed,” said Galen, “although I remain a bit disturbed by the apparent transfiguration of wood to flesh.”
“What disturbs you? The transfiguration, or the fact that it was apparent?” asked Jude.
“Illusions or not,” retorted Galen, “that woman experienced something which profoundly affected her, and certainly went beyond the bounds of mere entertainment.”
“And your judgement,” said Jude, “is affected and weakened by the use of too many adjectives. Sometimes, things are what they are. Was there a transfiguration?”
Galen paused, then: “Yes.”
“Was it entertainment?”
“To whom?”
“That’s a better insight,” said Jude. “To most of the patrons, it was—to the woman herself, it was a practical experience.”
“And to us?”
“What do you think?”
“Why wood?” asked Michael, interrupting. “I mean, you specified that it would be better to have a wooden leg. Why not plastic?”
“Plastic is a dead thing—wood is alive,” said Jude, “and the kinetic energy resident in living things is easier to transform than are other materials.”
“Where did you learn to do that?” asked Galen.
“A good illusionist never reveals his secrets.”
“There is also the matter of the man into whose skull you drove that crowbar,” said Galen.
“That was more science than magic, although properly done it makes for a stunner of an illusion.”
“Then it was real? Do you think he’ll survive?”
“Did he looked at all distressed to you?”
“No,” said Galen, puzzled. “He looked … grateful.”
“Never let it be said that I failed to satisfy my audience,” said Jude.
“But,” said Michael, still a few steps behind the others, “you’re retired, so what’s to stop you from spilling the beans?”
Jude tipped his head back and a rich, throaty laugh burst from his lips. “All right, all right—you have me there. As it happens, the answer to that question is part and parcel of the answer to your first.”
* * *
“The immense arcs of history, mythology, and religion are inexorably intertwined,” Jude said, setting aside their digressions to continue his story, “and at any given point at least two of the three can be seen sending great cracks throughout the foundations of the world. Those foundations can shift, changing the landscape. In instants, continents change; cultures vanish; and it is in those instants when mankind attempts to use one of those grand arcs to explain the new landscape and his place in it. However, even those spheres combined cannot truly capture the fabric of existence; there is more of the world that has been lost than we can ever know.
“But, consider this—what if there were a place, a secret repository of this lost knowledge, where centuries of scholars have gathered together and preserved the unredeemed histories of the world?”
“History,” Galen corrected.
Jude turned a sharp eye to him. “I beg your pardon—did I use the plural?”
“Where is this place?” asked Michael, eyeing the Prime Edda. “The Vatican has an extraordinary sealed Library, and there are several private ducal collections in Europe. For America, there’s the Huntington, but the kind of collection you’re speaking of … Is it the Library of Alexandria?”
“Somehow preserved and expanded?” Jude said, shaking his head. “No, I’m afraid that facility would have been too small for the needs—and regardless, is more myth than history. I’m talking about something less conspicuous and far less notorious. To achieve the stability necessary to shelter their work from the tectonic stresses of the world, such a library would have to be located in a place where the lines of myth, history, and religion converged into a vanishing point.”
“Shangri-La,” said Michael.
“Oh, of course,” said Galen, rolling his eyes and thrusting his jaw forward.
“Actually, he’s right,” said Jude, much to the others’ astonishment, and not a little surprised himself. “Not Shangri-La precisely, as in the Hilton novel, but a hidden … Monastery, much like Shangri-La was written to be.”
Unconvinced, Galen threw a look at Mic
hael that was at once both questioning and exasperated—not an expression which Michael was unaccustomed to seeing. “Were you shooting into the fog, or was Shangri-La a measured response?”
“A little of both,” said Michael, setting down his coffee and leaning over the smallish table where the book lay. “To begin with, the language and letterforms are the Old Icelandic, but the manuscript has been printed, not written—as far as I can tell, it was printed in Tibet.” He said this with such open and clear authority, that the others didn’t respond, but merely sat back in their seats—Jude with a small smile, Galen with a look of interested respect. Michael Langbein may seem to be a bit scattered at times, but anyone making such definitive judgements after such a cursory examination was either a genius or an imbecile, and Galen was disinclined to think he was the latter.
Taking their silence as a concession to his expertise, Michael continued. “Take the letters themselves—they’re very close, but not quite standard Icelandic forms. These bear traces of a form of Tibetan lettering used in block-printing known as U-chen, or ‘headed letters’, which the Tibetans based on Indian alphabets and letterforms. The paper is another indicator—Tibetan papermaking was an art they lifted from the Chinese. Tibetan paper is manufactured directly from plant fibers, primarily those found in willow bark. The fibers are soaked, beaten for several days, pulverized, and then spread out on a piece of cloth which is stretched across a wooden frame. After the mixture is dried in the sun for a few days, it’s ready to be cut as paper.”
“Not to question your facility in this,” said Galen, “but don’t you think that’s a rather rash assumption without a chemical analysis?”
“There’s one way to tell for sure,” said Michael. He leafed through the pages until he saw a loose flake of parchment on the upper edge, away from the text. He flicked it off, being careful not to tear or damage the sheet, then popped the fragment in his mouth.
Jude and Galen looked at each other, entirely at a loss as to where this was going.
The Festival of Bones: Mythworld Book One Page 7